


hades and persephone do manhattan

by psychomachia



Category: Stoker (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 01:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15920397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: There's more than one way to get someone to descend to the underworld.





	hades and persephone do manhattan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



**I.**

“Come away with me,” he says.

India just stares at him blankly. There's a thought somewhere in her mind, almost a knowing without explanation, that she shouldn't be here. This isn't the right place, the right time.

There's a metronome ticking in her head, seconds fading away into silence as the man and her lock gazes.

His face is flecked with blood and India's hand itches a little. It's distracting, and she thinks, not quite symmetrical either. She wants to wipe it off, make it more orderly again.

Or cover his face with more blood, so that it's an even sheen of red across it.

Both choices are acceptable, but the man takes the initiative, seeing her twitching hand, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. It's white like his teeth and he slowly, methodically cleans his face until there's no trace left.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “It's impolite for me to make such a suggestion without introducing myself. I'm your uncle, Charlie.”

He reaches out his hand and it hangs in the air, trembling. There's blood under his nails and his knuckles are slightly swollen, pink and scraped.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” he says.

The man's smiling at her. Her uncle has a sharp grin, but Charlie's eyes are hopeful and dazed, as if a dream came true in front of him and he can't believe quite what he sees.

India doesn't take his hand.

His grin wavers, becoming smaller until his teeth disappear behind his lips. It's a crooked little smile now, uncertain and scared. His eyes are nervous now, too.

“If I came off as too forward--”

She takes his hand firmly, grips it so tight she can hear his a sharp gasp of breath from him, before he holds onto her, his surprisingly soft fingers grasping hers.

“I'm India Stoker,” she says. “And we need to take my father to the hospital first.”

 

**II.**

Washington, D.C. was not India's first choice.

She told him she was going to apply to schools in New York.

“No!” he said, one of the few times he ever raised his voice at her. “You can't go there.”

“Why?”

“You just can't,” he said. “Anywhere but there.”

And that was that. No arguments, no pleading, no “oh, really, Richard, if she wants to be that far away from us, let her,” from her mother would change his mind.

He wasn't that thrilled by D.C. either but he conceded, after weeks of silence on her part and her mother's exasperated sighs, that it “would be far enough away.”

He did not explain that either.

On the day of her graduation, she wore her saddle shoes, and her mother complained about it the entire day. “Aren't you a little old to still be wearing those?”

“It's fine, Evelyn,” her father said. “If she wants to wear them, let her.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “Still a child,” she muttered. “You will have to grow up someday.”

So India moves to a tiny room of her own, as big as one of the closets in her family's house. The heater works too well in the winter and the building's too old for air conditioning in the summer, so she's constantly too hot, taking cold showers in the middle of the night to avoid her hallmates.

They try to speak to her, but she's too quiet, too indifferent and soon most know to avoid her. She spends her first year, drifting from course to course, in a haze. It's like she's constantly asleep, and she has to pinch herself to remind herself she's awake.

Because nothing feels right.

One day, she's opening up her tiny mailbox when the person in the mailroom motions her over.

“I'm so sorry,” the woman says. “It looks like one of our student workers forgot to put this in your box two weeks ago.” She hands India an envelope. There's nothing on the front of it but India's name and the school address. Whoever wrote it to her most have hoped it would have reached her somehow.

Inside is an old postcard, red with a picture of some buildings and a caption saying “New York the Wonder City”. There's a train ticket next to it. Union Station to Penn Station. The date's two weeks from now.

She turns it over.

“Why don't you come visit?” is written on the other side.

Then a signature.

Charlie.

 

**III.**

They're cruising along the freeway. India's the one at the wheel always. Charlie refuses to take control. “It's fine,” he says, laughing. “You're the one who has places she wants to go.”

“And what do you want?”

“To always be with you.”

She shakes her head. “There's something wrong with you.”

His teeth gleam. “With both of us, you mean. Or did you forget the sheriff back there?”

Stabbing pruning shears into his neck – the boom deafening her – blood on white flowers. She looks away from him towards the road. “How long have we been driving?”

He reclines next to her. “Who knows? I haven't been paying attention.”

It's dark out, but there's no stars to be seen in the sky. She reaches to turn on the radio. Nothing but static. “We need to stop somewhere soon. It must be very late.”

Charlie's hand is warm as it traces along her neck. His voice, whispers in her ear, and she unconsciously closes her eyes. “There's no rush.”

She arches against the seat as his hand moves lower. He's leaning over her now, and she can feel him moving on top of her. “I didn't say you could do this, Charlie,” India says, and her voice is muffled by the roaring in her ears.

“Then I'm asking for permission,” he says. His hand gently strokes along the belt, lower down to her skirt, pressing in. Where he touches, it's like a hole burning through her clothing directly to her skin.

“Yes,” and she puts her right hand on top of his. She guides him, directs him to go deeper between the folds of her skirt. His fingers dip in, nimble and hot.

Charlie pushes inwards, and she moves along with him. Her hand is the conductor, her body the instrument, and he is the musician tuning her to perfection. They are in unison, hands moving in a practiced duet as he plays with her, in her, causing her to tremble and moan.

He's always been a liar, because no one's been able to match her like him and he pretended for so long that they weren't meant from each other from the beginning each took their first breath to the day...

She comes with a cry.

India's eyes open. The car still moves straight and smooth on the road. She's barely touching the wheel.

“How much longer?” she asks Charlie, who's back to sitting in the passenger seat, as if nothing had happened.

Blood's trickling down his face, and his face briefly flickers into a mangled mess of pulp and bone before it goes back to his usual, beautiful state.

“As long as you want,” he says. “As I said, no rush.”

India's vision blurs in red, and she lifts her hand. Charlie passes her his handkerchief and she mops it from the face. She doesn't look in the mirror, but she knows what she'd see.

Somewhere, maybe in a field of cotton or a cheap motel room or in the front seat of Charlie's convertible, there's a girl who's not going home again.

“Then let's keep going,” India says.

There is nothing but darkness in front of them.

 

**II.**

“Are you waiting for someone?”

India takes her time, closes her book carefully, sets it down on the grass next to her, and smooths out her skirt. Only then does she look up at the intruder.

“Perhaps,” she allows. “But I'm not sure what he looks like.”

The young man in front of her is handsome, dark-haired, and has a wide smile. “How can you be waiting for someone you don't know?”

“I've never met Charlie,” she says. “But he asked me to come here and meet him. So I'm waiting.”

“Then you're in luck,” he says. “I'm Charlie.”

She gazes at him for a few seconds. It's not a terrible experience.

“Very well,” she says. “I'm India. Where are we going?” 

* * *

 

There's coffee and a movie and it's all very nice and pleasant and boring. Charlie is polite and charming, offering to pay for everything. She sits at the table, waiting until he's finished paying, and the server leans over to her. “He's a cutie,” she says.

“Hmm,” India replies and looks away.

Charlie takes her for a drive out of the city into quieter streets filled with medieval looking houses, brick paving, and trees dotting the landscape. Her mother would like it.

India finds it vaguely disquieting and claustrophobic.

He parks his car near some bushes and turns to look at her.

Charlie's not smiling now. “India,” he says. “Don't you think you owe me for tonight?” His hand brushes against her breast.

She cocks her head. “Owe you?” India takes his hand to move it back to his lap. “I don't think so.”

“No, I think you do, you little bitch,” he says. “And I think I'm going to collect.”

It's India's turn to smile. “Oh, Ian,” she laughs. “No.”

He lunges towards her. “How the hell--”

“Really,” she asks. “You think I'm that stupid?”

“He does,” a voice says as he opens the car door, sliding in the back seat. “I told you, most men have no manners.”

Ian whips around. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh , I'm Charlie,” the man says, turning to India. “I apologize for being late.”

“It's all right,” she says. “We were just getting acquainted.”

“I'm sorry, Ian.” Charlie's smile matches her own. “I haven't properly introduced myself. I'm India's.”

“India's what?” Ian hisses.

“India's everything,” Charlie answers and wraps his belt around Ian's neck.

She moves her hand underneath her skirt and watches the entire time, only coming when Ian's body goes limp and his last gurgling breath leaves his body.

Charlie looks at her, expectantly. He's beaming with pride.

“Next time,” she says. “I think we should go camping.”

 

**I.**

You've never seen a more devoted couple, their friends all say.

Richard and Evelyn are so beautiful and it would be easy to hate them for having the perfect life with their immaculate house and well-manicured garden and their discreet but obvious wealth. But they're just... good people.

Well, it is true that Evelyn is a bit standoffish, but Richard is very lovely and helpful. Always ready to lend a hand, says the sweetest things, and appreciates art and music. How could you not fall in love with him? So many women would be willing to leave their spouses, run away if he were to show the slightest interest in them.

But he only has eyes for his wife, politely rebuffing even the mildest of flirtations and it's both incredibly endearing and frustrating to his admirers.

“She's got him on such a tight leash,” Juliana pouted to her best friend. “He's like a big puppy dog, always following her around and doing anything she says. Honestly, she doesn't know what she's got.”

Alice just drains her glass of wine in response. She's pretty sure Evelyn knows exactly what she has. She's seen the marks that lie just below Richard's collar.

Ruth knows about them, too. She once watched them play the piano together when she came over to deliver a plate of muffins and it was uncomfortably like watching someone have sex right in front of you. She thinks she stammered an excuse, took her no doubt crimson face home, and was unable to get out of the bath for an hour while she thought about it.

Evelyn's not as well-liked as her husband, but it's hard to hate her too. She's not haughty or full of herself, she doesn't gossip, and she's dependable enough to ask to watch your house while you're gone or make sure your plants get watered on vacation.

She'll keep any secret you tell her, even if it's about your husband and the reason you came to book club with your arm broken and your lip busted and you had to tell everyone that you tripped over the dog and fell down a few steps.

Three days later, Mae's husband died in a car accident and Mae kept her house, her dog, and her mouth shut in uneasy gratitude.

Richard and Evelyn are just the best neighbors.

(Somewhere out there, there's another Richard, who sits in a wheelchair outside for hours at a time waiting for someone who will never come home. There's another Evelyn who packs up her daughter's stuff, puts it into storage, and sets about erasing her from her mind. There are neighbors who say, such a shame that happened to them. Shows you can never guess what goes on in those nice houses.)

But this Richard, this Evelyn, that twine their bodies around each other as Evelyn raises herself above him, thrusting him into her as he pulls at her hair until she wraps her hands around his neck, pressing gently as he begs her to make it harder...

They're the perfect couple.

 

**IV.**

“This is real, isn't it?”

“It's real.”

“Because sometimes I think that I must be dreaming and when I wake, I'll be back there alone, waiting for my brother to come and get me.”

She runs her fingers through his hair, and he pants slightly, his breath coming out in gasps. His brow is sweaty and when she traces her finger lower towards his eyelids, they pull away wet. “You're here with me.”

“I'm here with you.”

She kisses him firmly. His mouth opens beneath hers and she lets his tongue explore inside, mapping every inch of hers until he's satisfied.

He clutches at India desperately and she knows his hands will leave bruises in the morning. She'll press her fingers against them, making them hurt, making them last.

“I love you,” he says.

India bites at his neck, drawing blood. She pulls away and swallows down the coppery taste.

“You killed my father. You tried to kill my mother.”

“I didn't--”

“You did.”

“He wouldn't let me see you,” Charlie says. His voice breaks up. “He wanted to forget about me, to make me some stranger. He didn't want to love me anymore. So I made sure he couldn't.”

I could hate you, she thinks. Could hurt you, break you, kill you and you'd let me do it because you love my father and you loved me and there's nothing else left for you in the world.

“Do you want me to love you?” She's leaning over him now, her hair falling in front of her face. “Do you think I even could? Or would you kill me if I couldn't?”

India slowly lowers herself until her head is resting against his chest. She can feel his heart beating, thinks idly about ripping it from his chest with her hands, eating it raw with sharp teeth until she's devoured it whole. It would taste so sweet.

“I would never hurt you,” he says. It's one of the few true things she's heard from him.

She rewards that by mouthing gently at the skin above his heart. Then she kisses along his chest, nipping occasionally. He trembles each time she does it.

He's still hard, though, and India touches the hot warmth of it, running a finger lightly to make him squirm. Then she grips tighter and one of his hands tangles into her hair, trying so hard not to yank. “Someday,” she says. “I may forgive you.”

Charlie lets out a choked sob and his head falls to one side of the pillow as her other hand reaches up to take one of his. He clutches it tightly, and in the dim light, she can see the bruise on his face where she hit him with her rifle.

(He fell to the floor, clutching his face. She didn't hit him hard, just enough to startle him and release his grip on her mother.

“Let's go,” she said, her mother still wheezing on the floor.

And even though his lip was bleeding and she knew he was probably in quite a bit of pain, he still smiled.)

“I love you so much.”

“Yes,” India says. “I know you do.”


End file.
